I am filled with light and sparks.
My skin is shrivelling, growing withered.
My face is growing old, and wrinkled, cold.
The day has been shrinking,
Giving up to the night.
Shrivelling, growing withered,
Growing old, wrinkled and cold,
Without putting up a fight,
But, tonight is the Winter Solstice.
The day has begun to yearn.
The tide begins to turn.
The day makes an effort to change the spin,
To turn around, begin again.
The day stops growing wrinkled and old.
In its tracks.
I would make the effort,
I would fight the night,
I yearn but I do not believe I can turn.
I must ride my own tide,
And, I am more indolent than the earth,
More lethargic than the day,
Less powerful than the winter or the night I have to fight.
The best I can do is stand my ground.
I do not believe I can overcome irreversible time.
And so, my hair keeps growing whiter and whiter,
But, each of my white hairs is a day I spent in sunshine,
Or, a night I slept in stardust dreams,
And, I still believe the best is always yet to come.
Some day I will be older than everyone else.
Then what I have to say will matter.